David Alan Dedin
Hungry Like the Wolf
Thirty-One
Hungry Like the Wolf
1992
The Fifth Avenue’s “crystal key” hood ornament, a football field’s distance from its dashboard, twinkled brilliantly in the sunlight against a horizon of white paint and chrome. Smoke rose from the ashtray as Sharon, in tangerine, sat behind the wheel of her white 85’ Chrysler – a beast the size of a military transport, with a gold crushed velvet interior. The engine idled softly in order to keep the defrosters on, but the radio was muted so the manager could think. She found that she had quite a lot to think about.
Up ahead, on the other side of the employee parking lot, the trio arrived for work in three separate vehicles – a nice Cadillac, a nice Chrysler, and now a really nice Silverado. It was almost comical how they parked side by side in a row, and when each driver got out of their car, Sharon half expected to see Moe, Larry, and Curly – “Hello, Hello, Hello!”
“I like my Schnookums’ new truck!” Guinevere squealed, pausing for a moment to pose by its hood. Her baby bump had gotten so big, she couldn’t even close her new lynx coat. “If it were any other man, I’d think he were overcompensating, but I’d say the size is just about right. Maybe even a little small.”
“My Schnookums says the sweetest things about my penis,” Alan said, taking her hand. He helped her towards the restaurant as more servers arrived for shifts. The early January temperature had nosedived, and the snow sounded like Styrofoam beneath their feet. Guinevere’s coat was thick enough to keep her warm, but Alan and Patrick were bundled in layers, except for their hair.
This January had become a deep freeze.
* * * * *
Once inside the building, Alan & Patrick checked their sections while Gwen hung her coat, then made herself a hot cocoa. It was another busy Saturday night, and the trio prepared to make lots of money. The three touched base in the dining room before Guinevere headed for the hostess stand while the boys joined the alley rally in back –“I say Checker’s, you say rocks!”
“Checker’s rocks!”
“Checker’s rocks!”
Game time.
And for the first time in over a year, Sharon was truly watching from the sideline.
* * * * *
“I think Jackie’s stoned again,” Rob Vain said to Patrick in the side station a few hours later.
“And that’s a surprise?” Patrick asked. “Isn’t Jackie always stoned?”
“No, I mean I think she’s getting high at work now,” Rob clarified. “She’s absent minded, even by Jackie standards. And I think she’s smoking in the customer restroom, so Sharon doesn’t catch her in the employee bathroom.”
“That’s not good,” Patrick told him.
“She’s going to get herself caught,” Rob said as the two looked down the fifties to where Jackie was standing at a table. She was laughing as hysterically as a scene from Reefer Madness, and even though her customers were seated, they still appeared to gather their children.
“And I think Sharon’s onto her,” Rob added, nodding towards the general manager who was standing at the far end of the dining room, observing. Her eyes went from Jackie to Patrick and Rob’s, causing Rob to immediately look away. But Patrick allowed his eyes to linger – what’s she thinking?
“Cover me at the register?” Alan asked, entering the side station after Rob Vain stepped away. “I’ve got a sixty-dollar void.”
Pouring Cokes, Patrick kept one eye on Sharon as he answered. “Sure, but let’s wait five minutes, okay? Sharon looks like a dog with a bone right now.”
“Got it.”
The two went their separate ways.
* * * * *
“CORNER!” Laurie yelled, coming into the kitchen with a tray full of pre-bus. She handed it to Mia by the dishwasher, then entered the busy alley like a bull. “WALKING IN, TWO KID TENDERS!” Her eyes met Alan’s when she joined him at the Max, purposely looking over his shoulder – “What’cha doin’?”
“I’m playing a game of Space Invaders.” Alan’s voice dripped in sarcasm.
“No, seriously. What are you doing?”
“I’m ringing in an order.”
“For what table?”
“Forty-five.”
“What’s on the ticket?”
“Err, burgers Laurie…what’s with the twenty questions?”
“I just wanted to make sure that you didn’t need any help.”
Printing his ticket, Alan spun around to face her. “I think I got it, Laurie. But you have my sincerest thanks.” The two locked eyes in a staring contest. “Do you mind if I turn this in?”
She let him pass.
“CORNER – WALKING IN CHEESE FRIES!” Patrick appeared in the alley and lost his tray. He went for the Max, but quickly veered towards the Coke machine when he noticed Laurie watching. He poured two root beers.
“Jackie, stop eating customer’s food!” Rodney, tonight’s expo, yelled at the chewing waitress. Her mouth full of French fries, the half-baked server lifted the oval tray onto her shoulder, then sauntered down the alley as “Rio” blasted from above. Rodney shook his head.
Dereck appeared from the bar – “You got my stir fry’s, Rodney?”
“Right here.”
“Thanks.”
“WE’VE GOT A SEVEN TABLE TURN!” Natalie shouted, popping her head into the kitchen. “AND THE WAIT IS FIFTY MINUTES.”
“Something’s up with Laurie,” Alan whispered to Patrick. “She’s watching me like a hawk tonight.”
“Me too,” Patrick said.
“What should we do?”
“I think it’s time the Phantom makes another appearance,” Patrick told him. “But be careful. Whatever you do, it needs to look like an accident, not a prank.”
* * * * *
The big oval tray was in the center of the unseen camera’s shot; it was packed with freshly-garnished food – two burgers, one Halibut, one Country Fried Steak dinner with an extra side of gravy. The tray started in the expo window, then launched into the air where it was balanced on Ty’s fingertips. Servers below stepped aside as the tray glided through the bright alley, then around the corner into the restaurant’s dimly-lit dining room.
With customers all around, the tray was still firmly front & center when it flew through the smoking section, then down the stairs and left, into the sixties. Schoolhouse lights shot past from above as the tray soared along tables of diners before opening its jack like landing gear when it neared Laurie’s four top table. The customers below looked up, setting aside their soup and salad bowls to make room for their nearing meals.
But then, like a plane that had lost its wing in flight, the tray suddenly nosedived…
* * * * *
From a distance, Ty looked like she were in drag, dancing. She approached Laurie’s table quickly, opened the tray jack, then went to set the order down. But then she unexpectedly slipped on spilled drawn butter, her entire body slamming to the floor, her arm making an ugly snap in the process. Dishes filled the air, crashing and breaking on the table. Bits of shattered porcelain spun like Ninja stars as Ty hit the ground, amidst the hailstorm of broken glass. The whole event took barely ten seconds, but it brought the dining room to a standstill. All eyes shot to the table, and waitress. Ty clutched her arm in pain, and like Sharon in the office a few days ago, started to sob.
And in the horrible moments that followed, Alan tucked an empty ramekin of drawn butter into his apron before covering Patrick, while he swapped the register journal at the Max.
* * * * *
“Okay, what the hell was that?” Alan asked Patrick in the Denny’s booth after their shift. Guinevere sat across from the two, a Lumberjack Slam in front of her bulging boobs. Alan had a Moons Over My Hammy, while Patrick just sipped coffee. “It feels like Sharon knows what we’re doing. Is that possible?”
“Anything’s possible,” Patrick told him. “The real question is, is it likely?”
“Sharon was acting weird tonight,” Guinevere told them. “Even Natalie said something about it.”
“So, what do we do?” Alan asked. “Should we stop for awhile? Work without voiding tables?”
“We don’t want to get caught,” Gwen added. “We don’t want to kill the golden goose.”
“I’m scared,” Alan admitted.
“Well, let’s hold on now,” Patrick said, calming the two. “If we stop cold turkey, food costs will drop immediately. That’s the last thing we want because it will get the managers’ attention.”
“So what do we do?” Alan repeated.
“We go forward cautiously,” Patrick told them. “We move slowly, we move carefully, and we make sure to cover our tracks” –
“And most importantly, we cover each other.”
“I don’t want to go to jail,” Alan told him.
“And you won’t,” Patrick said. “None of us will.”
“But how can you be so sure?” Guinevere asked, chewing. “I’m not kidding, Patrick. Sharon was watching both of you all night long. And she kept asking how many tables you had.”
“Again, how can you be sure?”
“I can’t,” Patrick admitted. “But I do know that it’s worse if we just stop completely.” He thought a moment. “If anything, we need to double-down on our efforts to make it look like the cooks are stealing.”
“How are we going to do that?” Alan asked.
Patrick took a sip of coffee before answering –
“I might have an idea.”
* * * * *
“WHERE ARE ALL THE STEAKS?” Big Tim shouted the next day, slamming the walk-in door as he left. “All the steaks I prepped for tonight – they’re gone. They ain’t in the cooler!”
Steaks in hand – a good $800 worth of them – were balanced in a Lexan on Alan’s fingertips as he stood on a stool in the stockroom, and hid them in the ceiling as he’d once done with silverware. Patrick kept guard while Alan deposited the meat, pulling the dry goods stockroom ceiling tile aside, then jumping to the floor – “Fin.”
“That should keep Sharon looking the other direction tonight,” Patrick told him.
“Yeah, but how long can we keep doing this?” Alan asked. “This feels like we’re digging in deep, for the last gasps of something.”
“We’ll do this as long as we need to,” Patrick said –
“As long as we fucking need to.”
* * * * *
Hours later, after the restaurant had closed, Patrick’s Eldorado hit 70 as his blinkers flipped on when he neared the Quad Cities. Like his checkbook, his gas tank was almost empty, and, after a somewhat profitable shift at Checker’s, he’d decided to test his luck at The President Riverboat Casino in Davenport, Iowa.
The riverboat was like many in the state; it was docked, full of lights, and noisy with the sounds of blackjack tables and slot machines. Patrick normally played Keno – he was good at predicting when the game would pay out – but tonight he laid two hundred on the poker tables, hoping for a larger payout.
He would stay at the poker tables until the wee hours…
* * * * *
The next day at Checker’s, Sharon, in hunter green, was doing the pre-shift inventory herself, looking for discrepancies. Laurie came up to her –
“Can I help you with anything, boss?”
“I’m doing something for Stan Arini,” Sharon said, “but I’m really having trouble reaching the same conclusions as him.” She looked at Laurie. “I still need you on the floor. I need you to be my eyes and ears.”
“I’m on it, boss!”
Turning her attention towards the cook’s line, Sharon glared at Roger, Cochise, and Duncan – What a bunch of work-release losers.
“Miss Donovan?” Big Tim approached with a clipboard. “Here’s a copy of all the food that’s currently on the cook’s line.” She took it from him and stared – I don’t care what Mr. Arini says, I know you fuckin’ cooks are stealing, and once I can prove it, I’ll fire every last one of you, including yourself. “Thanks.”
“Sharon?” Rodney came up beside her. “Here’s a copy of today’s floor plan. And I’ve counted everyone’s’ tickets as you’ve asked.”
“Thanks,” Sharon repeated.
“I think we’re ready to go,” Laurie said, coming round from the server’s alley. “You want me to call the alley rally?”
“Yes,” Sharon said, noting the group of Bradley Boys who’d just entered the kitchen. “And make sure that the trio is front and center.”
* * * * *
“LISTEN UP, PEOPLE!” Sharon shouted from the expo window. “I’m going to keep this short and sweet!” –
“Our food costs are way too high. And I’m looking at every server – and every cook – to help me bring them down to a level that’s acceptable!” –
“Going forward, every plate, every side dish, every ramekin of fuckin’ ranch that leaves the kitchen…must…be approved…by a manager!”
“Even Cokes?” Jackie asked.
“And bread?” Rob Vain asked, gesturing to the oven.
“Every god damn thing,” Sharon snapped. “Everything that leaves the kitchen must be rung up on a ticket…otherwise, there will be hell to pay!”
“Won’t that slow down service?” Derek asked.
“There will be no more lingering in the aisles, lingering in the side station, or lingering in the employee breakroom,” Sharon continued. “From now on, the breakroom will be locked during the shift’s busy times, as will the employee restroom.”
“You’re locking the fuckin’ restroom?” one of the Bradleys said.
“I’m locking the fucking restroom,” Sharon repeated.
What a fuckin’ bitch, Jackie mumbled.
“I want to see every ticket” – Sharon looked directly at Alan & Patrick – “every single god-damned ticket before you turn it in to the cooks. Do you understand?”
A few servers muttered “we understand.”
“I SAID DO YOU UNDERSTAND!?”
“YES, MA’AM!” they shouted back.
“Good,” Sharon seethed, tying an apron around her skirt. She took her place in front of the passover, where she intended to stay for the the evening.
Natalie came around the corner – “Sharon, we just sat seven tables!”
“What are you all fuckin’ lookin’ at?” Sharon said to the servers. “Get your asses out there and start waiting tables!” She looked at Alan directly. “And if I so much as get a single customer complaint tonight, it’ll be your job! Do I make myself clear?”
The servers who hadn’t yet bolted for the dining room nodded their heads.
“Good.” Sharon turned her attention to the cooks –
“And as for you…”
* * * * *
“Dark in the city, night is a wire…”
“What…the fuck…was that?” Rob Vain asked Alan, as the two met on top of the dining room stairs.
“No dawdling,” Laurie said, coming between them. “Remember what Sharon said.”
“Fuck off, Laurie,” Alan told her.
“I just seated your section, Laurie,” Guinevere said when she walked past.
“Focus on customers,” Laurie said as she left. “Chop, chop.”
Rob left and Patrick appeared at Alan’s side – “Change of plans. We’re going to make it look like the servers are stealing.”
“What?” Alan was aghast.
“You heard me,” Patrick said, his eyes narrowing on Laurie as she approached her first table. “Or, at least we’re going to put the attention on the servers instead of the cooks.”
“How are we going to do that?”
Patrick’s expression was deadly-serious –
“It’s time for me to be the Phantom for a while.”
* * * * *
Later, during the rush, Sharon had lost the blazer and now stood in the expo window dressed in black, with an apron. The window was full of food again, only this time it was because she was auditing every ticket, inadvertently slowing down the food running process. But Sharon didn’t give a fuck. Tonight was more about reasserting her dominance than it was about customer service. Plus, it was nice to have a line of people waiting to run food as opposed to having to scream for food runners. Rather than screaming because she needed to, Sharon screamed because she wanted to –
“I NEED FOOD RUNNERS!”
“For Christ’s sake Sharon, I’m standing right beside you,” Rob Vain said.
“Run this to thirty-two.”
“Sharon, can you turn this ticket in please?” Patrick asked, coming up to her. She took the ticket from him with suspicion, and carefully noted that every item was properly rung up – which they were. Nodding in satisfaction, she turned the ticket in – “Order in the bowl!”
“Oh crap,” Patrick said, turning back to Sharon before Big Tim took the order. “Sharon, I need my ticket back. I have to make a change.”
“Make sure it’s rung up.”
“It’s not a monetary change,” Patrick told her, “I just have to change the instructions on a burger. Is it okay if I do that?” Sharon nodded.
Reaching for his ticket, Patrick intentionally took two others that were also in the bowl. He scribbled on his order, then turned it back in – while discreetly slipping the others into his pocket. He ran food on his way out of the kitchen, then met Alan in the side station.
“Did you get a ticket?” Alan asked.
“One of Laurie’s and one of Jennifer’s,” Patrick said.
“Laurie’s?” Alan chuckled. “Serves her right.”
“I know she’s too good of a server to let it go for long,” Patrick said, “but it’s high time that something happens to one of her tables. If anything, it will just add to the commotion. Our goal is to get Sharon out of that window, as soon as possible. We can’t put any tables into play until she does.”
“You know, our fake tickets look like real ones,” Alan said. “Why can’t we just put some through now? Sharon would never know.”
“It’s too risky,” Patrick told him. “Just the fact that she’s looking at every order means that she might remember if an something is missing later on. And I guarantee you that she’ll be looking at all the tickets a second time, after we close.”
“This sucks.”
“It could be worse.”
“How’s that?”
“We could leave work in a police car, Alan.”
* * * * *
POLICE LIGHTS FLASHED in the windows a few hours later as a car was pulled over for speeding on War Memorial Drive. Sharon’s figure stood in silhouette surrounded by red and blue as she talked to a table whose order was the latest to have been lost – “I’m very sorry for the wait. We’ll have your food out shortly. In the meantime, how about if I buy you another round of drinks?”
As they’d suspected, pulling Sharon to the floor was just enough to get her out of the window. She’d made her point – she had pissed a line in the sand. This was her restaurant, and she was the boss, period. And though she’d spend most of the shift in the kitchen, the floor was where she truly belonged – even if it meant comping a few drinks. Yes, she was the alpha male tonight –
Only while Sharon was alpha male-ing, Alan & Patrick stole an entire round of tables under her nose just before their sections were closed for the night.
* * * * *
“This is IT?” Guinevere complained as Alan handed her a mere forty dollars.
“I’m sorry Schnookums, but Sharon was in the kitchen all night. We couldn’t take a single table until after nine o’clock.”
“How am I going to put my baby through college on forty fucking dollars?”
“The same way my Schnookums pays for her bar tabs. Flirt with the bartender.”
“A bartender? What kind of college do you think I’m talking about?”
“Any college you want. Just take the dean out for drinks.”
“You guys ready?” Patrick asked, entering the lobby while zipping up his coat. He pulled a stocking cap over his ears – “The day is over. No need to save the hair.”
“Aren’t you forgetting something?” Guinevere asked.
“Gloves?” Patrick asked.
“Where’s my fucking cut?” Gwen said, hitting him on the chest. Patrick shook his head –
“Gwen, I didn’t make enough tonight. Maybe tomorrow.”
“Tonight was a really bad night, Schnookums.”
“Let’s go,” Patrick said, holding the lobby doors open for the two. Once again, Alan took Guinevere’s hand and helped her to her car – which he’d already started. A light snow fell in the parking lot’s lights as the three headed for their vehicles. Pulling out a pager-sized device from his pocket, Patrick started his car with remote-start.
“Show off,” Guinevere muttered.
“You got all your hard copies, right?” Patrick asked Alan.
“Right here,” Alan said, showing him his last three tickets.
“You guys want food?” Guinevere asked.
“I didn’t make that much tonight, Gwen,” Patrick told her. “Plus, I’m really tired. I just want to go home, take a shower, and go to bed.”
The three arrived at their cars. Alan took a moment to start his truck.
“Well, I guess this is goodnight?” Patrick asked.
“Night, Pat,” Alan said, waving.
“Night, Gwen.”
“Night, Patrick.”
Alan and Guinevere stepped aside as Patrick climbed into his Eldorado, re-started the engine, then beeped as he pulled away.
“Do you want food?” Gwen asked Alan.
“Honestly, no…but I’ll come along if you do. You want to hit Denny’s?”
Gwen touched her stomach. “No, I’m fine. I’m just wound up.”
“You want to go somewhere?”
Gwen shook her head. “All I really want…is a hug.”
Alan obliged.
“I love you, Alan.”
“I love you too, Gwen.”
The two embraced in front of their idling cars. For just a flashing second, their figures were silhouetted within their vehicle’s headlights – surrounded again by falling snow.
“Goodnight, Schnookums,” Alan said. “See you tomorrow.”
“Goodnight” – Guinevere blew him a kiss – “my darling Schnookums.”
He watched her get into her car and leave. Once she was gone, Alan climbed into his new truck and revved the engine. He pulled his driver’s side door closed, but not before one of his fake checks fell from his pocket.
Alan pulled away.
* * * * *
Like the shopping bag from American Beauty, Alan’s forgotten ticket floated through the cold night air like magic. The wind carried it whimsically, through the employee parking lot, above the customer parking lot, and causing it to do loop-de-loops until it finally stopped, near Checker’s frosty lobby doors –
It came to rest at the tip of Sharon’s heel.